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speak.
 Thank you again. I appreciate, I really do, your understanding, She smiles.
 Without that, wouldn't be much, would I? But you do be careful, Mr. Martel.
She turns, like a sprightly terrier, and marches back down to the main house.
He shakes his head. Of course, she's right, Martel, He does not know if it is
his thought or another's. It doesn't matter.
The directory is in the second drawer under the vidfax, and he does find the
listing: Firien, R NW of Sybernal. His fingers tap out the codes.
There is no answer as the beeps pulse and pulse and pulse.  Not even an answer
slot? he mumbles. A check of the instructions reminds him that autoscreens
are not available on Aurore. He tries again, but she is still not there. Next,
he surveys the drawers in the small kitchen, mentally inventorying each
utensil.
He taps out the number again, and there is no answer. He reads the autochef
manual, cover to cover, beginning with the installation date stamped inside
the front fold and ending with the recipe for time-roasted scampig.
Rather than try her number again, he looks for some cobwebs to dust, but his
memory reminds him that Aurore has no spiders, and therefore no cobwebs. He
keys Rathe's codes into the limited memory of his faxer, then jerks his hands
off the access plate. Should he have let her go? No.
Was he going to let her go? No.
Thinking about it, he smiles. Listening to the soft chittering of birds
through the open windows, the muted swash of the sea beyond the hill, and,
feeling the sharp edge of the salt air, he smiles.
The receive channel on the relay ship opens for nanounits.
The monitor blinks green, signifying that the relay has been completed.
The Brother at the controls touches one plate, a stud, begins the quick
sequence to take the ship into underspace to wait for the next transmission.
Once the small ship is underspace, he stabilizes the controls, touches the
replay stud, and waits for the equipment to return the message to real time.
The image on the screen is that of Brother Geidren, current domni of the
Council.
 By order of the Council, all Brothers and Sisters of the Order are hereby
requested to give their full prayers to the Congregation of the Fallen One, in
accordance with the Writ of Perception.
 Though all will not be accomplished that might, though the hours of the very
stars are numbered, still we persevere until each is weighed and numbered.
The screen blanks. The Brother frowns. Like all Brotherhood quicksends, it has
a double message, and for the first time in many years, he does not understand
the logic behind the second message.
In effect, the Brotherhood is being disbanded, being told to join and fully
support the Church of the Fallen God while continuing the basic goals of the
Brotherhood. The relay pilot pinches his fat lips together. The command
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releases the ship to him, for whatever purpose, and the same effect apparently
will take place through' out the Brotherhood.
He rechecks the authentications, and taps a query into the sender. The whole
idea of the message is absurd. There will always be a Brotherhood, Empire or
no Empire.
To go underground even more thoroughly has been expected since the ejection
from the Empire, but to join such an offbeat group of lunatics as the Church
of the Fallen One?
He readies his ship for the real-space transfer to send his query.
XI castcenter a simple bronzed plaque over the portal. Martel steps through.
The foyer on the inside is small. Indirect yellowed lighting combines with the
brown plasteel to convey a clean dingi-ness. The entry console is vacant, as
are the two armless chairs across from it.
Martel sits down, lets his perceptions range through the small building.
There are, from what he can tell with a quick scan, three studios, several
smaller rooms, four or five offices, a larger screening room, plus fresher
facilities, editing rooms, and the reception area.
He picks up three people in the entire circular building. One engineer, one
caster, and one administrator. A man and two women.
The administrator, female, is walking down the corridor toward Martel.
Martel stands up.
 You must be Martel. Certainly took your time in getting here.
He frowns. He is reporting eight weeks earlier than he has to.
 Does everyone report early?
 I forgot. The woman smirks.  You had adjustment problems. She has sandy [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]